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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805089">undone, undress</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/teddyaltmeme/pseuds/teddyaltmeme'>teddyaltmeme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Pre-Canon, touch starved, very casual except it’s not, wee quick handy w yer pal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 08:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,652</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805089</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/teddyaltmeme/pseuds/teddyaltmeme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I miss being close to people,’ He misses when his mother would hug him tight, when Joe would bump their shoulders together in brotherly camaraderie. He misses kissing boys in dark, hidden spaces, holding hands with girls on park benches. Sco seems to understand. He’s always understood Blake- better than Blake understands himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lance Corporal Schofield/Lance Corporal Blake, William Schofield/Thomas Blake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>undone, undress</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>LISTEN I know this is basically just the exact same as my last two fics but different... NO I will not apologise I’m just projecting things ok... I want Blake to be cherished please!!!! It’s also extremely ramble-y so sorry</p><p>title is from a Marika Hackman song of the same name but honestly her song Skin is far more appropriate</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There shouldn’t be anything notable about Schofield smoking- almost everyone Blake knows is a smoker, it’s not exactly unusual- but there is. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">He watches as Sco takes a drag from his cigarette, pushes the smoke out with his tongue, and breathes it back in through his nose.</span> <em><span class="s2">Irish Waterfall. French Inhale. </span></em><span class="s1">It’s a strangely alluring sight; a fluid motion laced with discreet control.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It makes him seem powerful, in a kind of effortless way. Sco probably doesn’t think twice about doing it, but the sight of it lingers in Blake’s mind long after the smoke dissipates. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blake thanks god that when Sco catches him looking he misconstrues it. Thinks it to be a different kind of desire.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Want one?’ Sco asks, knocking one from the pack before Blake can even answer. He just nods dumbly in return, caught off guard as Sco places it between his lips. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sco lights it for him too, his fingertips brushing Blake’s face as they try to shield the flame from the wind. The click of the lighter and the smell of nicotine settle him instantly- pavlovian response. Sco puts the lighter away but doesn’t move his other hand; he lets it linger by Blake’s face, so close he can feel the heat radiating from it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He leans into it- lets his cheek press against Sco’s hand; rough, calloused, and warm, so, so warm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Schofield skims his thumb over Blake’s skin, as if trying to brush away the seemingly permanent dirt that clings to it; his touch so soft for someone so strong. It makes Blake ache. It can’t possibly last more than a few seconds but it feels infinite. As infinite and isolated as the fields that surround them- as peaceful as the grass that waves in the breeze. They’re alone, they’re always alone. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blake is a social creature by nature; he loves people, crowds, he loves to talk and joke and tell stupid stories. Schofield is not. It had taken a while for Blake to adjust, to learn how to sit still and enjoy the quiet, but he’d do anything for Sco. If Sco wants to be alone then they’ll be alone together- even if it makes him antsy at times. At least when they’re away from everyone else there’s no one to notice if he looks at Sco too long. Blake has never been one to kid himself who he is, he knows, but he also knows he has to hide it. To admit it to anyone but himself would be suicide. There are times he thinks he could tell Sco- when it’s so dark they can’t see each other and the only trace of Sco is the soft rattle of his breathing. There are times he thinks Sco already knows- like now, when he’s smiling that soft, pitying smile that makes Blake feel like a child. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He winces a little when Sco’s hand drops. He’ll admit he’s touch starved; sure he has a lot of friends here but no one has touched him in months, not in any way that matters. Sco’s hand grounds him, but with its loss he feels himself come untethered.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Sco asks, the slightest trace of concern in his voice. Blake realises his silence might be suspicious if not just unusual, he hasn’t said a word in at least 10 minutes. He can feel Sco watching him as he takes a drag from his cigarette.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘I miss being close to people,’ He misses when his mother would hug him tight, when Joe would bump their shoulders together in brotherly camaraderie. He misses kissing boys in dark, hidden spaces, holding hands with girls on park benches. Sco seems to understand. He’s always understood Blake- better than Blake understands himself.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Come here,’ Sco commands more than he does ask. Blake obliges without thought, shuffling toward Sco, he stops still at his feet. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Closer,’ Sco adds. Blake isn’t sure where to go, but when Sco pats his own thighs it becomes all too clear. He snuffs out what remains of the cigarette on the grass and does as Sco says. He’d do whatever Sco asks of him, blindly following, but he feels a little unsure- nervous of what’s to come.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sco shifts to accommodate the weight of Blake atop him. He’s sure this can’t possibly be comfortable for Sco- he knows he’s a little on the heavier side, solid with hard-earned muscle and puppy fat- but if he’s bothered he’s not showing it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Schofield cups his face again, this time with both hands. It’s a very deliberate action, emphasised by the stare Sco fixes him with; hot and searching.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘What?’ Blake asks, his voice seeming almost foreign to him- as if coming from someone else. This whole thing feels like it might be a trap, but he can’t quite suss out why or what for. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘You’re just-‘ Sco pauses, looking for the right word, ‘You’re pretty, is all.’ </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘Pretty?’ Blake can feel heat rise; the blush paint his cheeks. There’s a part of him that wants to argue, to antagonise- </span> <em> <span class="s2">what, pretty like a girl?</span> </em> <span class="s1">- but he’s leaves it.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘You should’ve said something earlier,’ Sco muses, one hand finding its way to the back of Blake’s neck, the other to his side. Sco’s thumb smooths over the fade of his hair and it makes him shiver, ‘I could’ve helped.’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">There’s a lot of questions Blake wants to ask but seemingly no words to put to them. But Will’s touch does help; it soothes the omnipresent pit of lonely </span> <span class="s2">want</span> <span class="s1">, if only a little.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Bit of an odd thing to say to a mate, though, innit,’ Blake collects his thoughts as best he can, ‘“I’m feelin’ right lonely, can you hold me?”- you’d think I’m proper weird.’ </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘I suppose,’ Sco laughs fondly. Blake wonders what Schofield sees when he looks at him. What does he think of him- what does he feel. Blake knows how he feels about Sco, he’s known forever. Blake has loved enough to know what love feels like; even if this is different, bigger, than what he’s used to. Blake’s mother had always told him that you can’t chose who you love. She had also said you can’t deny it- lest you deny yourself a heart. He’d never really thought much of those words until he met Schofield, but he understands them now. Maybe she knew, maybe she’s always known, that the boys he used to hang out with weren’t always just friends.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It might be that Sco just sees a kid; tired, naïve, and in need of something gentle. He hopes it’s not, though. He hopes Sco sees his unruly hair and desperate gaze and thinks something else entirely. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Take your coat off,’ Sco‘s fingers trail down Blake’s sleeve. Blake’s awkward has he does it, caught in Sco’s gaze he feels too eager, too anxious, and too overwhelmed- but he manages to slip it off; discarding it on the grass beside them. The air is cold, his undershirt does little to keep out the chill, but it’s welcome on his overheated skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once it’s off, Will leans in closer; stops when his mouth is about an inch away from Blake’s neck.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Is this ok?’ He asks, his voice small and almost nervous. To say no now would ruin everything, but then again, so might saying yes.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Course it is,’ Blake says with a slight hysterical note, the words feel far too casual but it’s the best he’s got. He tilts his head, trying to give Sco better access. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the first time in a long time he feels safe. Safe with Sco’s arms around his waist. Safe with Sco’s chest pressed against his. Safe with Sco’s lips on his neck. He feels like he’s back in his own body, like he’s connected to the world by extension of Schofield, living not just surviving. In a bittersweet way it reminds him of home, of sitting- sleeping- under the trees in his mother’s orchard, untouched by fear. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">In the back of his head he hears his pastor’s frantic voice- </span> <em> <span class="s2">thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind; it is an abomination</span> </em> <span class="s1">- but it loses out to the feel of Sco’s hair brushing is jaw as he moves upwards. He never liked that passage anyway- nor had he liked the pastor.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blake startles when Sco’s hands find their way under his shirt. The drag of his calloused fingers against his soft stomach is unbearable. To have someone else’s skin on his undoes a previously unknown knot of tension in him; the relief of it so great and so sudden it makes him want throw up or cry. He only does the latter. No show of it, just the sting and the salt as they roll down his cheeks. He lets himself sink into Sco, who takes the weight of his lean with ease. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">When Sco finally kisses him, </span> <em> <span class="s2">properly</span> </em> <span class="s1">, it’s like the world is ending. Nothing- no guns, no gas, no bombs, no war- could possibly be more devastating than the love he feels for Sco at that moment. It’s like a stab to the gut; the kind of wound that bleeds out before you can do anything about it, the kind where the stitches would rip even if you could. </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blake is loosely aware of the sound he makes when Sco’s teeth bite down on his lip; not quite hard enough to draw blood- but it feels secondary, distant. He’s always been loud, he can’t seem to shut himself up even when he tries. It usually earns him a hand over his mouth- or some other distraction- but Sco doesn’t seem to want to quiet him. Sco shifts the position; manhandling Blake until he’s laid out on the damp grass with Sco sitting on him. He can feel the dew seep through the thin cotton but he doesn’t much care when Sco’s hands are pushing the material up his body, it bunches under his arms, exposing his stomach. For a moment Sco just stares. Blake carries a little weight there, a softness even the army diet hasn’t taken from him yet, and he wonders if maybe that’s why Sco’s stopped. If it somehow changes things. In Blake’s head it makes him look younger, or at least all too much his age. He’d felt grown til he got here.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘You </span> <span class="s2"><em>are</em> </span> <span class="s1">beautiful, you know that, right?’ There’s a hint of amazement in Sco’s voice when he says it, sort of like he can’t believe what he’s seeing and it makes Blake’s heart skip. For a second time, more to himself than anyone, he says; ‘So bloody beautiful.’ </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Oh, shut up, Will,’ He doesn’t really want him to, it’s clear in the lack of ire. He’s not sure he should’ve used Sco’s first name, to go there is to go to a place too real to come back from, but it had slipped off of his tongue before he could stop it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sco laughs, warm and light, but obliges. He looks to have decided a better use for his mouth. Sco moves, shuffling his way backwards until he’s in between Blake’s legs rather than atop them. He leans forward then, his breath ghosting Blake’s uncovered chest. Blake wants to look at Sco but from this angle all he can make out is blond hair, and when he tries to prop himself up, Sco pushes him back down with little effort. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Tom, just sit still, ok?’ And though he can’t see it, he can hear the smile in Sco’s voice, ‘I’ll take care of you.’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The words ring out in his head, clattering against the inside of his skull;</span> <em><span class="s2">I’ll take care of you</span></em><span class="s1">. Blake’s never really considered himself something to be taken care of- physically nor emotionally- he’s not exactly fragile. A born and bred farm boy he’s tough as anything, pretty much built for manual labour and long hours. His mother’s son, he has no trouble being open with himself or others, to him there’s no shame in feeling. That is to say he’s strong, he’s stable, he’s reliable- he’s something to take care, not be taken care of. Still, the idea of it turns him inside out, makes him hot all over. He loves attention, sure, but he’s never had it like this. He thinks he likes it. He can feel himself getting hard.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blake doesn’t lack experience- his hand, his throat, and a couple local boys will tell you as much- but it’s never been like this before. It’s never been anything more than superficial. When Sco presses his lips to Blake’s chest it feels as though he’s touching the very heart of him, right where it lays between his ribs. Sco continues downward stopping when he reaches Blake’s stomach- just above his waistband. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Tom?’ Sco’s breath tickles his skin</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Yeah?’ </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Do you mind if I- well,’ Sco sits back up, his hand lingering on Blake’s fly. Blake can see his face now. His normally pale skin flushed pink, and the cold blue of his irises just a thin ring around his dilated pupils. It’s nice to think that Sco’s at least somewhat affected by this.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘What- touch me?’ Blake asks, his voice raw from disuse. He’s unsure if Sco’s own reluctancy to say the words is just a byproduct of upper-class rigidity or if he’s nervous- if he’s never done this before. It’s more than likely he hasn’t, not with another man. Blake wants to reassure him somehow, but there’s not really anything to say, ‘Please do.’ </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sco hands- usually so adept- struggle with the buttons. When he finally gets them undone, Blake lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding; punched out of him by Sco’s knuckles as they brush his dick through his underwear. An incidental touch, maybe, but it catches him off guard. He already knows he isn’t going to last long, doesn’t much care either, not now he knows he can have this. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Sco lowers himself; one arm braced by Blake’s head the other sandwiched between them. He kisses Blake, deeper this time, more desperate than delicate. He kisses Blake until they’re both breathless with it and then kisses him again when he finally gets a hand under Blake’s waistband. A two-bit ploy to cover the moan that escapes him. He’d forgotten just how large Sco’s hands are, far bigger than his own- or anyone he’s ever been with’s for that matter- a bit rougher too. It’s not the best thing he’s ever felt, a little too dry and lacking in skill, but it ranks among the top few. Bettered by the intimacy of it all. Blake comes like that; with Sco’s hand wrapped around his dick and a whispered ‘</span> <span class="s2"><em>I love you</em>’</span> <span class="s1"> on his lips. Those few seconds of bliss consume him; mind filled with an excess of nothing. He feels clear for the first time in a long time, like his eyes are finally open- all he wants to look at is Sco. To see his dirt blond hair and lonely eyes; the contemplative furrow of his brow and his perfect nose.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sco goes to wipe his hand on the grass, but Blake catches his wrist before he can. He’s not sure what possesses him to do it but he pulls Sco’s hand up to his mouth and licks it clean. If this is already a sin what’s the point in playing it safe. The bitter taste of cum and the fact that it’s his own is more than a little gross, but any reservations about it are dispelled when he catches Sco’s gaze; eyes wide, desperate, and disbelieving.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘</span> <em> <span class="s2">Tom</span> </em> <span class="s1">,’ It comes out quiet like a secret, like a prayer. Blake thanks god for his quick refractory period- if youth has its perks then that is one- because all he wants now is to unravel Sco. </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Reckon it’s your turn next,’ Blake smiles, breathless; content. </span>
</p>
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